


Without

by mickie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Drugging, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-11-08 18:38:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20840165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickie/pseuds/mickie
Summary: Sherlock is in Rome hunting down Moriarty's lieutenants.This story is now complete.





	1. Echoes, Illusions, and Yearning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/gifts).

> This is my September entry for the Sherlock Challenge on Tumblr. The prompt is **without**.

**Echoes, Illusions, and Yearning**  
(_six months after the rooftop_)

“Rome is the city of echoes, the city of illusions, and the city of yearning.”  
-Giotto di Bondone, Renaissance painter

It was late afternoon and Sherlock sat comfortably at an outdoor table of Bar del Fico on Piazza Navona in Rome. He’d finished the _filetto di agnello su carciofi e crema cacio e pepe_* and was now sipping an espresso while he awaited a contact. Emilio Chiaramonte, a retired Carabiniere, currently a private investigator specializing in organized crime, was providing him with information on one of Moriarty’s more prominent smugglers.

Sherlock had been hunting down Moriarty’s network for six months but not for the reasons that Mycroft assumed. Freeing the world from these criminals was a noble sounding pursuit and it was certainly within the realm and scope of Mycroft’s work with MI6 as well as suiting his brother’s desire for revenge on Moriarty but that’s not what drove Sherlock.

Taking a sip of his espresso, Sherlock closed his eyes and remembered the rooftop. Every word that they’d uttered, every nuance was still fresh in his mind as though it had just happened. It had been the perfect plan. The evil Moriarty had exposed Sherlock Holmes as a fraud thereby forcing Sherlock to jump off the rooftop after the villain had shot himself and could neither confess his crimes nor redeem the detective.

The perfect plan. And it had worked perfectly. Except that it had all been a perfectly choreographed performance, the vehicle by which they could escape the shackles of their current lives and meet in Paris. Two lovers free to live as they wished. Jim Moriarty, the world’s most notorious consulting criminal, and Sherlock Holmes, marauding pirate, at his side. Not that Sherlock had planned on being a real pirate, only a symbolic one.

Sherlock took another sip and sighed with a certain amount of melancholy. Jim had never made it to the rendez-vous in Paris. It had been six months and not a single word from his lover. After three weeks in Paris, Sherlock had returned to London. And Mycroft’s agenda. He missed Jim. He felt betrayed and abandoned. He was lonely and he started using again; just enough to help him get through the day, but not enough that Mycroft would notice.

Jim occupied almost every waking moment of his mind. Everything that he saw somehow brought back a memory of their secret affair, of their covert, brilliant adventures, and of a shared passion that burned with an intensity that Sherlock had never known could exist between two people. Now everything was a cold and cruel reminder of what he had lost. That Jim had chosen his other lover over him.

They’d had an open relationship. Jim had always been honest that he was sleeping with his chief sniper and bodyguard. Sherlock had never been given a name but he had deduced that it was Colonel Sebastian Moran, former SAS and black ops, dishonorable discharge for violence and insubordination. Britain’s loss had been Moriarty’s gain. 

It was a bitter pill to swallow that Jim had left him behind without even a word and run off with Moran. That was why Sherlock had agreed to hunt down Moriarty’s network. He wanted to find Jim and ask him _why_. And maybe have one last argument. “I’m nothing without you,” he whispered quietly, staring into his espresso. It matched the color of Jim’s eyes. Dozens of memories of secret coffee shop interludes flooded his mind. Sherlock forced them down. 

The waitress approached and asked him if he wanted dessert, another coffee, or anything else. He shook his head and requested the check. These things always took a long time in Italy. As she walked away, he noted a man approach the outdoor seating area. Middle aged, held himself like retired military, matched his MI6 profile, looking for someone. Emilio Chiaramonte. Sherlock raised his hand to catch the man’s attention but he’d already seen him.

“Sherlock Holmes?” he asked, walking toward him. Sherlock nodded and rose. They shook hands. “A pleasure,” he said. “Are you finished?”

“I’m just waiting for the bill,” Sherlock replied while studying the man. He seemed at ease and comfortable but there was an undercurrent of anticipation.

“That’s okay,” Emilio said, smiling warmly. “Let me talk to your waitress. They know me here.” Sherlock nodded and watched the man go inside the bar. A few minutes later he walked out. “All set, my friend,” he said while waving for a taxi. “Let’s go.” A taxi pulled up and they got in. Sherlock stared at the driver for several long moments. No, it wasn’t Jim. Emilio said something in Italian and the taxi started moving.

“We are going to an apartment in Trastevere near Porta Portese,” Emilio explained. “The man is supposedly meeting a new client there. Instead, you and I will be there.” Sherlock nodded. “I assumed you wanted something quiet so I didn’t ask any guards to come with us.” He looked at his watch. “There is still time, do you want me to call and have them meet us there?”

“No, no,” Sherlock said. “Quiet is what I want. No need to make a scene. Explosions are tacky in the late afternoon.” He smiled, thinking of all the pretty and clever explosions Jim had created.

“Of course.”

“I just want to speak to the man and, if need be, you and I can bring him in to the police.”

“That’s a perfect plan.”

“What does he look like?” Sherlock asked cautiously. He didn’t think it would be Moriarty but it never hurt to ask.

“He’s about 1.8 meters, short dark hair, brown eyes, slender, always wears nice ties, and has a subtle accent, French, I think,” Emlio replied. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. Not Jim. “Always wears cheap suits though and has a stash of cornetti in his briefcase.” 

Sherlock wanted to laugh. The words Moriarty and cheap suits never belonged together. He looked at the sun slowly starting to set and thought back to Jim wearing his beloved suits. Westwood, Prada, Dior, Armani, Zegna. James always looked so striking in them and Sherlock imagined his fingers sliding over the fine cloth as he helped Jim undress.

Closing his eyes he remembered the feel of Jim’s smooth skin under his hands, kisses that seemed to last forever and drowned all doubts out of his mind, and then afterward holding each other while staring at the stars through a window, Jim identifying them all and Sherlock making ridiculous anecdotes about the words Jim used. Maybe he should have been more interested.

“We’ve arrived,” Emilio said, jarring Sherlock from his reminiscing.

“That was fast,” he noted.

“Ten minute drive.” Emilio paid the taxi driver and led Sherlock to a fairly tall, terra cotta colored apartment building that definitely needed a lot of exterior maintenance but the multitude of trees and plants around the perimeter hid most of the disrepair. 

They went in through the back door and up three flights of narrow stairs. Sherlock remembered sneaking off with Jim to secret flats that Jim owned, ducking the CCTV cameras, lying to Mycroft and John, bringing back desserts for Mrs.Hudson, who always seemed to know, and slow, passionate kisses in small rundown stairwells. “I’m nothing without you,” he mumbled again. They stopped in front of a green door with the paint cracking in places and a traditional Heurtoir lion brass door knocker

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Emilio said and knocked on the door. 

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied. “Nothing.” A policeman opened the door. Not Jim. They stepped inside and Sherlock saw another policeman standing next to a chair with a man tied to it. Neither was Jim. Sherlock sighed with disappointment. Even though he didn’t think he’d know what to say to Moriarty if he ever found the man, he still hoped. Just a little. Maybe a lot.

Emilio closed the door behind. Observing all the details of the room, Sherlock took two steps forward and then movement from a side doorway caught his attention. Man. Military. Armed. Shooting him. Sherlock felt pain in his abdomen. As darkness filled his vision, pieces fell into place altogether too slowly. _Sebastian Moran_.

*filet of lamb on artichokes with a black pepper and cheese white sauce. _Crema cacio e pepe_ is a traditional sauce that resembles (from a distance) Alfredo sauce.


	2. Deception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Sebastian Moran talk.

**Deception**

“The greatest deception men suffer is from their own opinions.”  
-Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci

The whistle from a tea kettle jarred Sherlock awake. “He’s up!” someone shouted from nearby. He silently cursed the guard’s observational skills.

“I’ve just got the tea ready,” someone answered with an intriguing voice, an interesting mixture of posh and rugged. Like what Mycroft might sound like after a few years working in the real world. Sherlock forced himself not to snicker at that thought.

Faking unconsciousness now was obviously out of the question. Sherlock quickly tried to take stock of the situation before opening his eyes. He was lying down on a couch of some sort with his hands cuffed behind him and his legs tied together. There was a light blanket on his legs and his head rested on a pillow. That was surprisingly civil. 

His chest hurt where the tranquilizer dart had hit him. Deciding to play weak and injured, he moaned softly and cracked an eye open. The lights were bright so he shut them tightly while surreptitiously examining the cuffs as best he could. They seemed to be above-average and not the kind that he could pick in under thirty seconds. Most unfortuitous. His feet were securely bound with rope.

Sighing, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes. He felt a bit nauseous but guessed that was from the tranquilizer. Three guards, all ex-military by the way that they held themselves, were in the room. It was the same apartment that he’d walked into with Emilio Chiaramonte although the man was nowhere in sight. Apparently a set-up. He’d have to have words with Mycroft about this and MI6’s utter incompetence.

Sebastian Moran set a tea tray on the table next to the couch and then sat down in a comfortable chair, staring at Sherlock, seriously. Sherlock did not see signs of anger, rage, or fury, but he did not trust the man’s calm demeanor. Moran had the eyes of a killer and his gaze was on Sherlock.

Sherlock decided to provoke. “So, you’re being mother?” he asked sweetly while eyeing the tea tray. Moran didn’t even flinch. Sherlock wanted to upend the tray and all the near boiling water into the man’s lap. He supposed being Moriarty’s second had taught Moran some stoicism. “What kind did you make?”

“Turkish apple tea,” Moran replied. 

Sherlock frowned. That was one of Jim’s favorites. Jim had made it for him many times. The man was clearly gloating that Jim was _his_ and not Sherlock’s. “I would have thought you would have made his real favorite,” he taunted even though he could feel jealousy rearing its ugly green head. “The candy cane tea.”

“I’m out of that one,” Moran replied evenly although Sherlock thought he saw a flicker of sadness before the iciness returned. That was odd.

“Where is he?” Moran asked. His crystal blue eyes seemed to bore right through Sherlock. 

Sherlock froze. That question made no sense. Closing his eyes, he grit out, “He’s with _you_.”

“He’s not,” Moran replied slowly. The man sounded just as perplexed with Sherlock’s answer as Sherlock was with the question.

Opening his eyes, Sherlock took in every detail. Moran wasn’t lying. And that didn’t make sense. “What happened?” he asked. “Why do you think I know where he is?”

The man eyed him silently for a few moments and then rose. “I’m going to sit you up,” he said. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’m just a consulting detective,” Sherlock noted smugly as Moran pulled him up to a seated position and adjusted the pillow.

“And a trained pugilist,” Moran countered. “As well as a thrill junkie and a drug addict with a muted response to pain as well as a high tolerance for it. I. Will. Kill. You. If. You. Try. Anything.” He pushed Sherlock forward and released his hands from the cuffs.

Sherlock nodded and leaned back against the pillow while rubbing his wrists. “What do you want?” he asked to buy himself more time and see if he could get more information.

“Moriarty,” Moran replied and again stared at Sherlock with those piercing blue eyes. “What did you do with him?”

Sherlock frowned again. The man still wasn’t lying and that was baffling. “If he’s not with you, then I don’t know,” he growled. “He blew off our meeting in Paris. It’s obvious that he chose you over me. Maybe you weren’t good enough for him either and he left.”

Moran shook his head but then poured two mugs of tea and handed one to Sherlock. “Be careful, it’s hot.” Sherlock nodded and Sebastian continued, “He had a team at the hospital and we were supposed to meet at St. Sepulchre's Church. They never showed.”

Yet again, Sherlock noted that the man was not lying and he was suddenly afraid at the implications that Jim wasn’t with either of them. “He never showed,” he repeated to again buy himself time.

“No,” Moran answered and sadness filled his voice. “I assumed he’d changed his mind about the three of us going to Paris and he was running off with you.” Sherlock felt his blood run cold and he shook his head to keep his emotions in check. 

Moran continued, “When we argued, he’d threaten me with that sometimes. You two are so much more alike than he and I that I wasn’t surprised. I’d made him promise to tell me if he chose to end it with me but I half expected him to run off with you.”

“I expected him to run off with you,” Sherlock said. “You’re everything that I’m not and you’re good for him. Frankly, I thought he was a fool not to even if I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.” He finally allowed himself to start deducing. “This is troubling. I assumed he was with you. You haven’t seen him in six months?” 

Moran shook his head. “I assumed he was with you until I got a cryptic message last week that I don’t know how to interpret.”

“Let me see it,” Sherlock said firmly and much to his surprise Moran pulled out his cell phone and brought up a text. It was a string of code that Sherlock would have to stare at for a few minutes to decipher and a pinned location in London. He looked up at Moran for clarification.

“The first two are identification and validation codes,” Sebastian said. “I don’t know anything about that location. It’s a building. Jim never mentioned it and it’s not on his list of secret government buildings that no one is supposed to know about.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder if this was an elaborate trap but Moran had certainly had the opportunity to kill him or do anything he wanted with him. Sherlock also realized that he didn’t care. Living without Jim was a living hell. If it were a trap, better to fall into it and live with Jim under whatever terms the man wanted. “Is this a trap?” he asked, watching Moran intently. 

The man had been watching him just as intently and that gave Sherlock all the answer he needed. It wasn’t a trap and Sebastian Moran wanted Jim Moriarty back as much as he did. “No,” Sebastian replied and the honesty in his eyes shook Sherlock. They both wanted the same thing. “I haven’t seen him in six months and I can’t live without him.” 

“I have better government clearance now than I did before,” Sherlock said slowly. “If you get me a computer, I can take a look and see if I can find anything. It could be the government.” He could picture Mycroft wanting to remove Jim. His brother had never approved of their affair. Or it could be a rival criminal organization. Or a foreign government. Jim had certainly worked with all of those.

Sebastian rose again and poured more tea. “It’s probably still quite hot,” he said and then went to retrieve a laptop that was on a nearby table. “Why am I trusting you?” he mumbled to himself.

Sherlock chuckled and blew on the tea. “Because if what you say is true, I’m your only hope of finding Jim,” he said. He focused on how attractive the man was instead of thoughts of what could have happened to Jim and, after six months, what condition his lover might be in if he was still alive. Who could have taken him? Was Mycroft involved…? Sherlock really didn’t want to think about _that_.

After a few moments Sebastian handed him a laptop. “Don’t make me regret this,” the man said.

“You won’t,” Sherlock stated. “Jim and I are the brains of this operation. You need one of us.” Sebastian rolled his eyes and sat down. Sherlock opened a browser and began logging into MI6’s computer systems.

“I don’t,” Moran grumbled, picking up his mug of tea. He did sound just a bit more relaxed. “Just find Jim.”

“I will,” Sherlock said firmly. He first scanned a directory of personnel to see if there was anyone assigned to that area. Nothing. He then accessed the database that contained all the research facilities and associated projects. There were three buildings in the same area but when he cross-checked them, none were the exact location.

“Find anything?” Moran asked after a few minutes.

“No,” Sherlock replied and took a sip of his tea. “There are some buildings within a few kilometers but nothing at that precise location.” He sighed. “I may have to do this one by one since it’s not obvious and they’re not making it easy.”

Sebastian grumbled, “It’s the government. Nothing is obvious or easy.”

“And my brother is most likely involved.”

“And your brother is most likely involved. Can I kill him?”

Sherlock frowned, didn’t answer the question, and started reviewing the list of facilities. If he were Mycroft and trying to be oh-so-smart-and-clever while trying to actually be surreptitious, which building would it be? It was fairly tedious work but three mugs of tea and a cheese sandwich later, he reached a conclusion. Thank goodness Moran was more competent than Watson at providing snacks and beverages. Jim had trained him well. “I think I’ve got it,” he said. 

Moran arched an eyebrow and took a sip of his own tea. “You found him?”

“No,” Sherlock said, looking up. “Not exactly, but, it has to be this one, the Verne Building” He pointed to the screen. “Ostensibly it’s an ultra high security facility where they keep works of art that have been retrieved, stolen, _et cetera_, _et cetera_.”

“Works of art?" Moran said slowly. His expression filled with disbelief. “Ultra high security?”

“Exactly,” Sherlock confirmed. “Only a dozen guards are listed as being on rotation there.”

“That makes sense; it’s art.”

“Except that if I cross check the access codes of those guards, they don't match.”

“They’re actually assigned elsewhere,” Moran said. Sherlock was momentarily impressed. Moran could, at least, keep up.

“Yes, so then I checked the access codes of the guards with ultra high clearance and found a few with this one particular code that didn’t match any building,” Sherlock explained. “Then, when I searched for whom else had that access… researchers, medical personnel, a few interrogators…”

“It’s a high level prison,” Moran said tersely.

“Or worse,” Sherlock said softly.

“And the location?”

“Unknown. That access code isn’t matched to any building in the system.”

“That has to be it.”

“I would have to agree,” Sherlock said. “We have to get him out of there.”

“I have to get him out of there.”

Sherlock frowned. There was so much he didn’t know about Sebastian Moran but what he saw in the man left him no doubts of his loyalty to Jim as well as something he didn’t want to admit. “No,” he said. “I love him just as much as you do. You’re not going _without_ me.”


	3. Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened to Jim in the six months that he was missing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read tags and trigger warnings carefully.
> 
> This chapter switches to Jim's POV. It starts before chapter one and ends after chapter two.
> 
> **TW: rape and forced drugging**

**Freedom**

"I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free."  
-Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Hearing the familiar sound of the door unlocking, Jim opened his eyes and watched Pretty Nurse come in. She seemed sad that day. He would have to remember to ask why. As usual she babbled about mundane things. Why couldn’t she have a degree in astronomy?

Despite it being useless nonsense, Jim found her prattle comforting. It was a break from the ordinary and she was nice. Posh Suit Fella was intelligent but his questions made no sense. The guards keeping him safe were mostly dull and useless. Something bothered him about one of the guards, the dark haired one with a moustache, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint why.

It was time for his meds. Pretty Nurse started an IV all the while talking about her boyfriend. No. Ex-boyfriend. Something about her daughter. Something was not right. Something in his mind was trying to get his attention. The meds were no good for him. Pretty Nurse should not be leaving her daughter with her ex-boyfriend. For some reason Jim did not like him.

The cold of the IV and the meds she was injecting always felt like death in his veins. It took half a minute and then he felt good. Lassitude overwhelmed any concern. He was safe. Nothing mattered. He could think about it later.

~~

Jim didn’t remember much of the week except that the pressing sense that he needed to do something, that the meds they were giving him were not helping him, was becoming stronger. Posh Suit Fella came to see him a few times and asked inane questions. Then they talked about maths. Jim could understand that. 

If he closed his eyes and listened, he instinctively knew all the theorems, axioms, models, and postulates that Posh Suit Fella brought up but if he tried to focus on one, he couldn’t. The knowledge would evaporate. A thought flashed across Jim’s mind. “Could we please talk about astronomy?” he asked. “I might do better with that.”

“Are you familiar with astronomy as well as maths?” Posh Suit Fella asked.

Jim didn’t think before speaking, “I wrote a book on it.”

“Did you?” Posh Suit Fella sounded surprised. “I didn’t know. What’s the title?”

Jim scrunched his eyes together while trying to think about the book. _Did I write a book_? He didn’t remember writing a book. _What was the title_? Maybe he hadn’t written one and this was another figment. “I don’t know…” he mumbled, opening his eyes.

“I’ll see if I can find it,” Posh Suit Fella said primly. The man was very proper.

“Thank you. Can we talk about astronomy now?” Closing his eyes again, Jim relaxed and felt himself sinking into the chair and feeling. Feeling the darkness. Yes, he’d written a book. Best not to tell anyone.

“I don’t know as much about astronomy as I do maths,” Posh Suit Fella stated. “But I will do some research and when I come back next time, we’ll chat about it.”

“Thank you.”

“You look tired and it’s almost time for supper. I’d best be off. As always, I enjoyed our chat.”

“Likewise.” Jim had kept his eyes closed. Posh Suit Fella was hiding something. Jim needed to figure things out. _What is so important_? _What do I need to do_?

~~

It was again time for his meds and Pretty Nurse had started the IV. Jim was sitting in his favorite chair with a blanket on his lap. Before she could do anything else, he gasped loudly and shot her a panicked wide-eyed look. “What’s wrong, dear?” Pretty Nurse asked. 

Jim exaggerated his fear. “My ring,” he said and sniffled while pulling the blanket over his arms and up to his neck. “I can’t find it.”

“Where did you have it last?” Concern filled her voice as she injected the medications into the IV bag. 

Jim quickly disconnected the tubing at the access port and tucked the line under the seat cushion. “I think I had it in the bathroom,” he whimpered. “I took it off but I don’t know why.” He started sobbing softly. “I need my ring.”

“Oh, I can help!” Pretty Nurse exclaimed. “Let me get these in here and then I’ll go look.”

“Please find it,” Jim wailed.

“Let me check the line.”

“Noooooooo!” Jim nearly screeched. He couldn’t have her looking at the IV. “I neeeeeeeeeeed it. It’s very, very, very important. Please, pretty please, find my ring!’

Pretty Nurse seemed worried. “Does the IV feel okay?” she asked. Jim nodded and started sobbing again. “Does it feel cold with no pain like usual?”

Jim sniffed and scrunched his eyes as though he was thinking. “Ye-es,” he whispered. “Please find my ring.”

“Don’t you fret,” she assured him and headed for the bathroom. “I’ll find it. If it’s not here, we’ll search the entire room.” Jim breathed a sigh of relief and continued sobbing and sniffling. Now, he just needed for the ring plan to work and keep her busy long enough.

“I found it!” Pretty Nurse exclaimed. Jim closed his eyes and silently prayed. The faeries. He somehow knew that the faeries had helped him. Where did that come from? Such an odd thought. 

Pretty Nurse shrieked as he heard the soft clink of metal. Perfect. He’d carefully placed his ring on the edge of the drain so that if anyone touched it, it would fall in. “Oh no!” she yelled. Jim opened his eyes and showed utter fear. “It fell down the drain! I am so sorry,” she cried out. “I’m going to call someone if you’re okay with that.”

Jim widened his eyes and managed for a few tears to fall. “Puh- puh- please,” he whimpered. “Please. I need my ring.” She retrieved her phone, and tapped out a message. Jim noted where she kept it. Left front scrub pants pocket underneath her longer scrub top. He also noted where on her tray she kept pens, needles, and IV supplies. Potential weapons.

Eventually a plumber arrived along with two guards and his ring was retrieved. By that time the IV had nearly finished and Jim had reconnected it. Now to see if the drugs were lifesaving, as they all claimed, or if it was a lie.

~~

Later that evening, the dark haired guard with the mustache raped him. The man laughed while he did so. Chatted about how the great Moriarty wasn’t so great anymore. A delectably docile little lamb. As he lay limp, letting it happen, Jim vowed to kill him. Slowly. And then he marveled at how he could manage thoughts like that. And that it was a thought. Not a feeling or an instinct.

Mustache Rapist mentioned looping the cameras. Jim made a mental note to look for them and to be careful. Dodging cameras sounded familiar. Closing his eyes, he realized that being raped was also familiar. He had survived being raped before. And he was sure he had exacted revenge. Only when it was over and Mustache Rapist was gone did he allow himself to cry in the dark.

~~

The following day Jim became more aware of the passage of time. It was the _following day_; the day _after_ he’d been raped. Pretty Nurse came to see him. While checking his vitals, she babbled about her daughter again, the ex, and mentioned her mother in a nursing home. Jim wasn’t sure he’d heard about the mother before but the ex still troubled him. Between what he remembered from previous stories, which he _remembered_ more coherently, and this week’s news, he decided that the man was evil and had to die.

He also felt certain that he had ways of dealing with people like that even if he couldn’t remember any of them. Some humans were a blight on the earth and simply had to be removed. Jim liked to fix things.

As she was writing her notes, Jim asked about her mother and watched where she stood. That morning he’d noticed how the people who delivered his breakfast and vitamins moved. They all seemed to avoid certain areas of the room. When she finished, he claimed fatigue and asked her to get a book for him. She took a specific path to the bookshelf and avoided blocking certain areas of the room with her body. 

After she left Jim sat with his book, sipping his water and pretending to read while taking note of potential locations for the hidden cameras. There were too many options and probably no place in his room that was not monitored. It made no sense to him. Scrunching his eyes together, he tried to remember. _Why am I here_? _What happened to me_? Nothing. His mind was blank.

Jim felt frustration and then his eyes widened. He had _felt_ something and realized that he’d been emotionally numb for a long time. That particular emotion was familiar and he suddenly knew that he had felt it and many other emotions before. He stared at the book while he forced himself to think. Nothing. His mind was still so very blank.

Setting the book down, he went to use the bathroom. There were probably cameras there as well be he couldn’t easily search without being obvious. Maybe when he was in the shower, he could scan the tiny room. The water was not warm enough to steam but it would hide him a bit.

~~

The week passed and more of Jim’s memories returned. His name really was Jim or James as Posh Suit Fella called him. Jim Moriarty. He didn’t remember Posh Suit Fella but he knew that the man was dangerous. Jim pretended to have a headache so that Posh Suit Fella would not stay long and observe him too closely. Posh Suit Fella was concerned about the headaches but decided to wait a week to see if they passed. 

Jim came to the realization that he was a prisoner. He didn’t know why but he definitely was. The drugs were clearly meant to incapacitate him and keep him docile. He grudgingly admitted that they worked all too well. Only the missed dose had allowed him to get inklings of thoughts, memories, and emotions. He somehow had to find a way to distract Pretty Nurse again without anyone noticing and keep the others from observing his improving thoughts and reactions.

*~*~*

When the day came for his next dose of meds, exactly a week later Jim determined, he was ready. He’d been leaving the room more of a mess than he usually did because he sensed that Pretty Nurse was as much of a neatnic as he was. He sat with his book and blanket and got her talking about her daughter. That was the perfect distraction. She again didn’t notice that he disconnected the IV underneath the blanket.

As she tidied up the room, he asked her questions about her mother. The woman had had a stroke and now lived in a nursing home. The government had been of no assistance when she’d asked for help in covering the expenses. That was one reason why she’d had to pull her daughter out of preschool and the ex was watching her. Jim didn’t trust the ex in any way, shape, or form.

Somehow he kept her distracted enough that she didn’t even come close to noticing that the IV was disconnected, reconnected, and he didn’t get much, if any, of the medications. He breathed a sigh of relief when she left and thanked the faeries. Dinner was squalid. Jim had been slowly realizing that the meals were bland, and more and more, he’d come to remember that he used to enjoy eating a variety of foods and sweets.

That evening he was raped again. It was a struggle not to react but he picked up more details. The man was military. The calluses on his fingers implied familiarity with rifles. Like someone else that he knew but couldn’t remember. While he lay still underneath the man and then later, he tried to remember people. 

Images of men and women flashed through his mind. None of them had names or stories but it comforted him as well as horrified him. He’d had a significant life before this room but all those people were gone. _Are they dead_? _Did they abandon me or forget about me_? That night Jim again sobbed quietly into his pillow.

~~

The following week was harder. It was difficult to pretend to be docile and to tolerate the incarceration. He found all the cameras. Some were obvious and some were very well hidden. Jim forced himself not to alter his behaviors because of them. He hated playing incapacitated.

He was able to differentiate his regular guards and remember them: Cat Pin Guy, Secret Smoker, Wrong Color Lipstick, Macho Bad BO Toothpick, Mustache Rapist, Orange Undershirt Woman, and Perfect Hair. None of them seemed overly interested in him except Cat Pin Guy. Every interaction with the petit blond seemed as though the man was waiting for him to do something but Jim didn’t remember him or have any idea what he could be waiting for.

Posh Suit Fella was definitely the man in charge. He was alert, sharp, and watched Jim like a hawk so Jim feigned more headaches. He did not want to be around the man. Posh Suit Fella was definitely an enemy, more so than Mustache Rapist, who was simply a vile opportunist.

Jim also tried to find ways to make weapons. They only gave him plastic spoons and paper cups with his meals but there were items in his room that he felt he could break to make a weapon. The problem was that he would only get one chance to escape and he had no idea of the layout of the building or what kind of security there was. A simple weapon would only get him so far. Still, he kept observing, plotting, and trying to remember more.

*~*~*

Pretty Nurse came in and started the IV for his meds. Jim felt dread. Eventually he’d get caught and they’d restrain him or forcibly give him the meds again. That thought terrified him. He had to find a way to escape that week and he had no idea where to begin. 

He chatted and got her talking about her daughter again. As soon as the meds were in the IV bag, he asked her to check if he was out of shampoo in the purposefully messy bathroom. She obliged and then started tidying up there. Perfect, although Jim knew that he was rapidly running out of ways to distract her. He closed his eyes and asked the faeries for help.

Mustache Rapist entered the room. Jim found that odd because normally one of the guards let Pretty Nurse in and then left the room. He forced himself to remain unreactive. The man had to die.

After giving him a once over, Mustache Rapist strode toward the bathroom. Jim heard Pretty Nurse gasp and then scream. He heard things falling to the ground and then Pretty Nurse was flung out of the bathroom. She fell to the floor and tried to roll away but Mustache Rapist dropped on top of her. She screamed again and the man laughed while ripping her top.

A cold calm fell over Jim. He could fix this. Rising silently, he made it halfway to her IV cart before Mustache Rapist noticed. He had an unsheathed needle in his hand before Mustache Rapist got off of her and rose. Pretty Nurse grabbed his legs and he tripped but then slapped her head hard. She fell unconscious. 

Moving forward, Jim drove the needle into the man’s carotid artery as forcefully as he could before twisting to one side as the man turned. Mustache Rapist’s fist missed him but then Jim felt himself slammed into the floor. That hurt. Crimson blood pulsed out of the IV needle. Jim kicked Mustache Rapist before rolling underneath the bed. He knew it wouldn’t afford him much protection but he shouldn’t have to hold out for long.

The bed was lifted and shoved halfway across the room. Jim defended himself instinctively. He’d done this before but Mustache Rapist was competent. Jim forced himself to keep breathing through the pain. It felt like an eternity but soon enough the man dropped to the floor. 

Jim ripped the needle out so as to widen the gash, threw it across the room, and then curled up into a ball against his upended bed until Pretty Nurse started moving. She struggled to sit up but then crawled over to him. Trembling and shaking, she caressed the side of his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Jim nodded. “Help me…” he pleaded and hoped that she would assist him.

“Yes,” she said, looking him over, checking him for injuries. “Are you hurt?”

“I need your phone,” Jim said instinctively. Phones were always the answer and the way to safety. She shook her head. Jim knew that he had to win her over otherwise he’d never escape. “I will help you,” he continued. “I know that I can help you.”

“I… can’t…” she whispered.

Jim could hear her resolve faltering. “I won’t let anyone else hurt you,” he pressed, using his most convincing voice. “Your mum will get the best care and your little one can go back to preschool.” She started sobbing. He could feel her fear. “I’ll have someone teach you how to fight so that you can defend yourself and you’ll never have to worry about money again.”

“I…”

“Just give me your phone,” he said as surely as he could manage and tried to make himself sound trustworthy. “No one will find out. No one will trace it to you. I promise.” 

“I don’t understand how…” She said but reached in her pocket and then handed him her phone. “I’ll... get bandages...”

Jim stared at the phone and realized that he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t remember any phone numbers or who to call. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. Closing his eyes he tried to remember if he’d had any emergency protocols or emergency numbers. _Emergency_. 

Emergency numbers and codes. Jim didn’t try to come up with anything specific but instead let his fingers dance over the keypad instinctively. Then he hit send and prayed to the faeries.

~~

The fallout from Mustache Rapist’s attempted assault was worse than Jim could have anticipated. He was battered and bruised and he hurt for days. They gave him very little for pain relief. Something to do with drug interactions they said. He didn’t believe them.

Pretty Nurse covered for him as best as she could. The room was searched and decontaminated. He learned that the cameras had been looped so that they had no evidence against him but Posh Suit Fella was suspicious, perturbed, and angry. 

Jim was questioned repeatedly by men he didn’t recognize, doctors, and Posh Suit Fella himself. That was the worst. He felt as though he couldn’t hide well enough from the man. They drew blood and asked him more questions. Pretty Nurse insisted that he’d received all his doses. Posh Suit Fella wasn’t convinced. Jim played passive and helpless.

When it was time for the next dose of medicine, he was strapped to a gurney and brought to an operating room. He was terrified but tried not to let it show. Posh Suit Fella was there and it seemed as though he knew. Jim didn’t fight. As the meds flowed into his veins, he tried going over everything he’d remembered to keep it in his mind. His thoughts morphed into strange phrases, numbers, and images and his felt his cognizance melting away. Like ice in the sun.

*~*~*

Gunshots. Jim and Posh Suit Fella had been talking about astronomy while three guards stood idly at various positions in the room. The door burst open and Jim instinctively dove under the bed. He saw two guards and Posh Suit Fella fall to the floor then heard instructions being barked out at the remaining guard. The voice sounded familiar.

Posh Suit Fella had been struck in the shoulder but was still conscious and breathing heavily. Jim wasn’t sure if he should try to drag the man to safety under the bed or stay still. “Jim!” the familiar voice shouted. Jim looked up and saw two heavily armed men, one wearing full military gear, the other wearing some gear, a long coat, and a blue scarf. He didn’t remember who they were but felt that he somehow knew them.

Long Coat pulled him out from under the bed and then picked him up in his arms. “You’re alive,” he said with a baritone voice that Jim recognized. The strong arms holding him felt familiar and comforting. Closing his eyes, Jim rested his head on the man’s shoulder. He was safe.


	4. Threesome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim recuperates with Sherlock and Sebastian.

**Threesome**

Not life, but good life, is to be chiefly valued.  
-Socrates

(_nine months later_)  
Opening his eyes, Sherlock noted that there was a warm body next to him and that bright light could be seen between the curtains. Past noon, judging by the angle of the sun. Jim was curled into him and Sebastian was on the other side wrapped around Jim. Sherlock smiled. This was bliss. 

Smirking, he slowly reached for Sebastian’s hand that was resting on Jim’s hip, peeled it off gently, and then set it back on Sebastian. “Mine,” he whispered and gently pulled Jim in closer. Feeling a shift in the bed, he tried to block Sebastian’s hand but he wasn’t fast enough.

“Brat,” Sebastian said while pinching Sherlock’s backside.

“You’re both _mine_,” Jim countered, slowly opening his eyes and stretching. The previous evening they’d gone to @54 Club, had a few drinks, danced, stayed out too late, staggered home, and made love until dawn. Jim had let them do whatever they wanted to him and it had been exquisite. Jim was rarely so passive but Sherlock loved every minute of it when he was.

After freeing Jim, they had moved from city to city for several weeks until they felt that they were safe. They had then opted to live in Mykonos, Greece, so that Jim could recuperate in an idyllic setting by the Aegean. 

Sherlock had been horrified by the condition in which they had found Jim. Seb had insisted on letting Mycroft live in exchange for the unredacted medical records. Sherlock had been furious but there was no arguing with Sebastian on a mission. Eventually he’d accepted that it had been a good idea. 

His shooting Mycroft’s right knee had also been a fantastic idea as far as he was concerned. His brother deserved to suffer for what he had done to Jim. Everytime he was reminded of what had been inflicted on his lover, he damned his brother to the nine hells several times over. Mycroft texted him every few weeks and he let Jim or Seb answer as they wished.

Jim’s memory had improved dramatically in the first three months to the point where he could function normally. The next few months he remembered things more sporadically. Sebastian being very OCD and having been prepared to run the business in the eventuality that something happened to Jim was very helpful. He was able to prompt Jim’s memory frequently and help Sherlock learn the ins and outs of the network. Sherlock enjoyed the work, especially when he could foil the British government.

Mycroft had needed several surgeries for his knee and he was still in a wheelchair. He’d been transferred to the British consulate in Chicago and Sherlock knew that his brother despised every minute of his existence on the other side of the pond as well as the humiliation of being removed from MI5 and demoted. Thinking about it made Sherlock smile and somehow justified letting the man live.

“I’m hungry for breakfast,” Jim purred. “Or whatever we want to call it.”

“I’ll make tea,” Sherlock said immediately and Jim chuckled. Jim usually prepared extraordinary meals while Seb put together simple foods. Sherlock avoided anything more complicated than opening a box of biscuits but he did make tea and mix drinks when needed.

“That’s good because it’s not like we’ve started to trust you to cook anything edible,” Sebastian teased and then caressed Sherlock’s side. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Play nice,” Jim playfully admonished and then first pushed Seb towards the edge of the bed and then Sherlock toward the other side. Both pouted but then got up while Jim stretched again. 

Sherlock reluctantly left him, got bathrobes for himself and Seb, and followed Seb to the kitchen. “I’d like omelettes,” he stated.

“Considering that you burn, char, massively undercook, or royally destroy anything that you try to cook, I don’t think you get a choice,” Sebastian noted cheerfully.

“I do not,” Sherlock grumbled while starting the kettle.

“Sandwiches don’t count and neither does having me finish the toasties but because you’re good in bed, I might let it slide.”

“You’re just being too particular with your definition of cooking.” Sherlock smiled as he watched Seb preparing the ingredients for cheese omelettes. He had hated the way Mycroft fussed, stifled, and overprotected him but the way Seb cared for both him and Jim made him feel cherished. “Don’t forget the potatoes,” he added saucily. Moran rolled his eyes. “Jim deserves the best.”

“Jim also deserves not to wait,” Seb countered. “He bought fancy bread with all sorts of seeds on it so he’s getting fancy toast with lots of butter and jam just the way he likes it.” Sherlock opted not to argue further for potatoes. Seb had noted his request and would probably make them soon if Sherlock didn’t annoy him overly much. 

They worked side-by-side, Sherlock helping Sebastian as best he could until the tea was ready and then he brought Jim a mug. “Thai chai,” he said as he entered the room.

“Thank you,” Jim said, extending his arm for the mug. He was sitting up in bed and wrapped in blankets despite it being fairly warm. “I remembered something...” he added softly.

Feeling his heart start pounding, Sherlock took a deep breath and sat down before handing Jim the mug. Usually Jim remembered bad things although Sherlock wasn’t sure if that was because through the drug-induced stupor, only bad things had caused an imprint in Jim’s mind or because there were only bad things to remember. He didn’t really want that question answered. 

“Can you tell me?” Sherlock asked. Jim nodded. “Is it horrible?”

Jim smiled sadly and eyed him for a moment before answering. “For once, not really,” he said and then tipped his head. “Not that it means it’s good.”

“I expect it wouldn’t be,” Sherlock said while keeping his emotions: anger, rage, sadness, grief, and despair at bay. “Do you need anything before you tell me?” It had been a struggle at first for Sherlock to put Jim’s needs ahead of his own. Surprisingly, he found that caring for Jim made him feel more whole, more alive, and more connected to his world. It was a nice feeling. _Caring_.

“No, I’m good with this,” Jim replied and blew on his tea to cool it. He did. however, change the subject. “What is Seb cooking?”

“Cheese omelettes and toast with the fancy bread you bought yesterday morning,” Sherlock replied and then pouted smugly. “He refused to make me potatoes.”

“I’ll make you potatoes tomorrow or later today if I’m not too tired,” Jim said. Sherlock kissed him tenderly. “I remembered being in that room,” Jim continued. “Mycroft and I were chatting about something that I don’t remember.” 

Sherlock winced and looked away. Even the mere mention of his brother made him cringe. Nothing justified doing what Mycroft had done to any person, and especially not to someone that Sherlock cared about. “You _will_ let me kill him one of these days,” he murmured.

“Maybe,” Jim said coyly but then continued, “Then the fog clears in my mind and he says how much I remind him of you, which I think is silly because we’re not all that alike.”

“Especially to someone observant like him,” Sherlock noted. “Bastard.”

“And then he said how he could love me.”

“I will _kill_ him,” Sherlock said firmly. “Slowly, painfully.” Jim pursed his lips with disapproval. “I don’t need your say so,” Sherlock growled playfully. “I’ll promise Seb a blow job whenever he wants for the following year. He’ll help me.” 

Jim laughed which caused Sherlock to preen. It made him happy to see Jim not sad or lost in thoughts, trying to remember something, or contemplating what had been done to him. “I’ll have to explicitly forbid Sebastian from accepting any such arrangement, although I think he’d just help you because he likes you and he wants to as well,” Jim said in that matter-of-fact tone that Sherlock used to dislike but now adored.

“We’ll leave you out of that loop,” Sherlock said. “Go on.”

“He then said that he hated me more than he hated anyone else on the planet,” Jim said quietly. “And it was odd because he said it so calmly, quite pleasantly in fact.”

“I hate when he talks like that. He used to snitch on me in that tone of voice,” Sherlock said with hints of anger in his voice but then took a deep breath. “Did he say why?”

“Because I’d stolen you away from him.” 

Sherlock inhaled sharply and fought down the rage. “I was _never his_,” he growled.

“The memory faded with him saying something about how hurting and destroying me was payback and it was only fair because of the pain that I’d caused him.”

“That’s psychotic,” Sherlock said fiercely.

Jim nodded. “It’s vaguely horrifying despite how calm it feels.”

“I will murder him.”

“One of these days, I’ll let you,” Jim said and pulled Sherlock’s hand to his lips before kissing each knuckle. “I don’t want to rush it. I’m saving it up for something special.”

Sherlock laughed. “Do you remember that? It was when I fell in love with you.”

“I do,” Jim said. “I don’t think I ever really forgot that, by the way.” Sherlock kissed him tenderly again. Jim continued, “I put so much effort into getting everything right that evening and, for once in my life, it worked. I was utterly shocked. Usually something gets fucked up or someone makes a mess of things.”

“I noticed everything, all the perfect details,” Sherlock said. “And I’d never felt as appreciated as I did that night.”

“Nothing but the best for you.”

“Memories of that night, sneaking off after John was safely tucked away with the police, and meeting you at the Auld Shillelagh for drinks, followed by that night together... that kept me going,” Sherlock admitted. “And that’s why I will kill the bastard for trying to take you away from me.”

Jim tipped his head to one side to indicate his phone on the nightstand. “I got an email from Joanna,” he said and then smiled smugly. “She got the job as Mycroft’s nurse in Chicago.” 

After the rescue, one of the first things that Jim had remembered was his nurse and he’d insisted that Sherlock and Sebastian find her. She’d been transferred and had her clearance lowered but she still worked for British intelligence. Jim had paid for her mother to be transferred to a much nicer care facility and paid all the expenses. Her ex-boyfriend had met with an unfortunate accident.

Sherlock laughed. “That will make things easy.”

“And get us information,” Jim said. “She said she’s got her daughter in a cute little preschool by the lake.”

“That’s good,” Sherlock said and then shook his head. “I still can’t believe Mycroft missed so much. And caused so much pain.”

“His obsession overcame his reason and his observational skills.” Jim set the cup of tea down and curled into Sherlock.

“It did,” Sherlock whispered and then kissed Jim passionately and as though his life depended on it. 

As they pulled apart, Jim whispered, “I’m grateful that you and Sebastian didn’t forget me. I can’t live _without_ you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.


End file.
